


Blind-Spot in Your Intellect

by Only_1_Truth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Drugging, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is so done with Sherlock, PTSD John, Sherlock has a problem with boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:37:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7327573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sometimes, in the name of solving a case, Sherlock went a little bit too far.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When a case turns up involving a victim mysteriously immune to being drugged unconscious, of course Sherlock wants to run some tests to figure out how.  The first problem is, he doesn't feel the need to warn John.  </p><p>The second problem is, Sherlock forgets that this roommate has a military background and doesn't always get to choose when he uses it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind-Spot in Your Intellect

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I play a little bit fast and loose with biology here, but since this is fan _fiction_ , just go with it, please ;) I don't write in this fandom very often, and never yet exclusively, so I'm realizing that I'm no Sherlock - and I have a newfound respect for the writers who research every pivotal detail!

Sometimes, in the name of solving a case, Sherlock went a little bit too far.

“ _Gahh_ -!  Sherlock!” John made an incomprehensible sound of displeasure, startled and more than a little outraged at being jabbed with a needle for no discernible reason.  Nearly dropping the pot of tea he’d been making, John twisted away, rubbing at his shoulder and looking with pique and distrust at the tall, limber man wielding the syringe.  “Sherlock, what the hell was that?!” John demanded.

“The police found evidence of an anesthetic in the victim’s system, yet the crime scene showed that he was not disposed of quickly or quietly – instead of just losing consciousness, he fought for an extended length of time before he was finally subdued, likely changing a clean kidnapping into a clumsy murder,” Sherlock immediately replied, the recent case like a drug keeping him alive and high, words spilling like a sleek river from his mouth now that he had facts lined up in his head.  In a fashion that was typical Sherlock, he ignored John’s temper and instead eyed the now-used needle, seeing that he had indeed emptied it before tossing it across the room with instant disinterest.  “The victim was a big man, but not so big that he should have been able to withstand being drugged, especially when the shot was supplied by someone obviously experienced in measuring dosages.”

John recalled the evidence from the case, or at least Lestrade’s simplified version of the facts.  The syringe had been well-prepared and given expertly despite the circumstances.  It was Sherlock who’d instantly deduced that that meant an attacker practiced with needles, and possibly even with mobile patients – such as animals.  It was Sherlock’s theory that the killer was a veterinarian.  Ultimately, that conclusion had lead to a conundrum: if the killer was skilled with needles and had access to soporifics, then why hadn’t the target, Andrew Larson, been knocked unconscious swiftly and easily?  Why had things escalated into a messy kill?

Of course, at the moment, those facts meant very little to John, who was still glaring and rubbing at his shoulder.

Sherlock was still talking, as if his sudden onslaught with the syringe was the most natural thing: “That suggests that something else is at play, but what?”  This was obviously a rhetorical question, because Sherlock was on a roll, and immediately answered himself, “There’s nothing in the victim’s medical history to suggest a tolerance for this brand or any other brand of anesthetic, so it must be something contemporary – something recent or specific to this moment.  There’s nothing wrong with the drug itself; Lestrade said they tested the contents of the syringe, found it perfectly viable.  So the problem is the victim himself.”

“Sherlock, what in the world does this all have to do with you sticking me in the arm with a needle?” John interrupted unrepentantly to demand.

Finally, Sherlock’s head turned to him, as if only now remembering him despite the fact that he’d been rattling off information to him this whole time.  Sherlock had a habit of dong that, as if he didn’t realize just how much he loved to use John as a sounding-board.  Some days, it was amusing to see him suddenly blink, surprised and derailed, but today was not one of those days.  “The answer must be in Larson’s blood, John!” Sherlock revealed, coming up to him as if that would somehow help John’s brain keep up with his.  John just huffed and rolled his eyes, but paid attention out of habit as his taller flatmate leaned down slightly to his level so those intense blue eyes were watching his.  “Forensics picked up nothing, but that just means they don’t know what they’re looking for.  Larson worked for a company that was on the cutting edge of genetics and biochemistry and had connections with dozens of other companies and people who knew even more about the workings of the human body, so it would be almost easy for them to put something in Larson’s system that would be either undetectable by a typical lab or so novel that people would not know how to look for it even if they could.”

“Did you just…?”  John thought that he was catching on – for once, he was able to follow along the path Sherlock’s labyrinthine mind was leading, skipping ahead to the destination with something like shocked disbelief.  He stared hard at Sherlock and repeated, this time finishing his sentence, “Did you just inject me with Andrew Larson’s _blood_?!”

“Of course, John, keep up.  Technically it is a _serum_ derived from Larson’s blood, but that’s just semantics,”  Sherlock blinked, evidently unable to understand the furious look on his flatmate’s face.  “How else am I supposed to test whether my hypothesis is correct?”

“I don’t know!” exploded the smaller man, moving from disbelief straight into outrage, because this was one of those days when he clearly was not cut out to deal with the force of mad nature that was Sherlock Holmes.  On days like this, it was painfully easy to realize why Sherlock had almost no friends: because he had a habit of not treating them in a particularly friendly (or even a humane) manner.  It stung to suddenly go from making tea with his best mate to being part of another lab experiment for the genius.  “Something _else_!” John finished for a lack of anything better to say.

“I just told you, there is no other way – didn’t I say that the labs missed whatever it was that rendered Larson immune to the anesthetic?” Sherlock replied, brows beetling as he took in John’s temper and was unable to compute it.

For a moment, John just stared at him, and then he blinked once, slowly, and gave up on talking sense into Sherlock.  “This is unbelievable.  Simply… unbelievable.”  He let his shoulders slump and turned away, shaking his head and looking towards the ceiling as if for heavenly guidance of some sort.  “Where do you come up with ideas like this and think that they’re okay?” he finally growled in exasperation while trying to think about just what Sherlock’s shot could do to him.  It was hard to keep up with the consulting detective, but John was a doctor himself, so he tried to force his own brain to calm down enough to work through all of this logically – with himself at the center of the alarming conundrum.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock grew more coaxing, clearly having some inkling that he’d crossed a line but unwilling to admit it, “It’s not like I poisoned you.”

“Although you did do that once,” John reminded him, unwilling to be friendly yet in the slightest.  He still stood stoically with his back to the other man, arms crossed, as if Sherlock were some big, recalcitrant pup he was ignoring.  In reality, he was trying to decide whether this all warranted panic or not.

Sherlock made a faint disgruntled noise.  Likely he’d been betting on John forgetting about the Baskerville drugging incident.  Sadly, the one thing that Sherlock learned increasingly by the day was that John was not quite so witless as he thought (sometimes hoped) he was.  The same spark of acumen that Sherlock valued in John was also the double-edged sword that lacerated him on occasion – like now.  “The blood was tested for any dangerous compounds.  I wouldn’t just inject you with something… willy-nilly!” Sherlock replied in exasperation, gesturing wildly now as his energy found no outlet – he wanted to _investigate_ something, but John was holding up the process.

John wasn’t going to give up this easily.  If nothing else, his recalcitrance counted as punishment for Sherlock for injecting his flatmate with a questionable compound without warning.  “You just finished telling me that you thought there was something _un_ detectable in Larson’s blood!”

“Oh, come on, _John_ ,” Sherlock finally just walked around him until he was facing John again, and although Sherlock was not a contact-friendly sort of person, he reached out and grabbed John’s arms to give him a little shake to get his attention, startling the smaller man and earning Sherlock another glare – after all, one of those arms had just had a needle stuck into it.  “Stop complaining and start helping,” Sherlock cajoled, “There are murderers to catch.”

Taking in a breath to argue, John found himself faced with Sherlock’s impatiently rolling eyes, and somehow it was harder to deny the man when he was acting derisive than when he was acting domineering and inconsiderate.  It always seemed like Sherlock’s moods were infectious, even when he was being an utter berk.  John fought silently a moment longer before sighing and giving in, a resignation that Sherlock must have read all over his face, because the man was instantly smirking in wild triumph.  Another point for Sherlock’s charisma.  Another stroke against John ever holding up long to the brand of excitement that the younger Holmes peddled.

As Sherlock darted into the chaos and mess that served as their kitchen, John called after him in a warning tone, “You know, one of these times, I’m really going to just deck you for stunts like this.”

“Oh, no, John,” Sherlock’s low tone of amusement drifted out of the kitchen, “you enjoy games like this too much for that.  Now sit.  I have a theory to test.”

John didn’t sit, but instead watched as Sherlock artfully and seemingly magically found himself another syringe.  It was sad that John wasn’t immensely surprised, and he even managed to reign in his rising alarm by crossing (and then uncrossing) his arms and quipping lightly, “Great.  Just great.  Should I be worried?”

“Whyever would you be worried?” Sherlock said, prepping another needle with far more skill than he had any right to have.  Sherlock’s brows drew together and his eyes narrowed in sincere bemusement as he looked up at the obviously nervous Dr. Watson, standing in the middle of the room.

“Just explain what in the world’s going on in that miraculous brain of yours,” John sighed, deciding that there was no point in anything but going along with the tidal wave that was Sherlock.  He’d already been shot-up with the blood of a dead man, so stopping now _did_ seem pointless.  If he’d wanted a safe, boring life, he’d never have agreed to live in 221B.

As always, it got Sherlock’s attention when John absently complimented his intelligence, and his head cocked as he strode back towards John, a tall, lean figure with chips of blue glass for eyes.  For the first time, he seemed to consider that he was approaching his friend and flatmate with a needle (a _second_ needle), something that would make most people quite bothered.  His expression settled into a pensive frown.  “Do you know where I’m going with this, John?” he asked, looking sincerely curious as he walked up.

“No,” John admitted, with another deep release of breath.  “But I know it usually gets interesting right about now.  And _you_ know that I’ll punch your bloody lights out if you try to stab me with another needle without explaining why,” John finished, pointedly jabbing a finger Sherlock’s way, which the taller man met with amusement.

However, just a beat later, he gave in and started explaining: “This is the exact same anesthetic given to the victim.  The dosage has been adjusted, of course – your mass is less than Larson’s – but this should replicate the situation accurately enough for me to collect some data on the matter.  Now, right arm or left?”

John patently ignored the question.  Sherlock could bloody well wait for his guinea pig to get ready.  “So if your theory is right, and there _was_ something in Larson’s blood that caused him to react strangely to a soporific, then I’ll stay awake instead of ending up on the floor, yeah?”

“Theoretically,” Sherlock drawled, but jerked his chin towards the chair, “More accurately, I’m hoping to see at least a slight increase in the time it takes for this to render you unconscious.  For that, you might want to be sitting.  Unless you fancy a swift meeting with the floor from… well, not a _very_ great height, I suppose.”

Any sort of argument dissolved into a general, flat stare, but eventually John shifted himself and settled onto the sofa.  He sat restlessly at first, but then seemed to remember his doctoral training – the kind of training that made needles significantly less intimidating than they were to normal people.  So instead of continuing to fidget nervously, John just leaned forward with his elbows on his legs, hands loosely clasped.  He managed an almost bored expression as he watched Sherlock come over, but then abruptly shifted to roll up his left sleeve.  “Here.  You may as well get it in a vein, instead of sticking me in the shoulder through my shirt like the villain in some bad suspense film.  Tell me again why you aren’t asking nicely for someone else to run this test?”

Sherlock made a grouchy sound, nose wrinkling in a snarl of distaste at the question.  “Takes too long.  Lestrade would never understand the necessity of it.  Goodness knows what Donovan would have to say about it.”

That got John to snort a laugh, even as he winced a little at the needle going in.  He closed his eyes and dragged in a deep breath, concentrating on the grip of Sherlock’s hand on his lower arm instead of the pinching bite of the needle; the man’s hand was warm and steady.  John didn’t need to be the deductive genius that Sherlock was to guess that lots of practice injecting various drugs had given the consulting detective such notable skill with a syringe and a vein.  He and Sherlock had had enough talks about the taller man’s drug habits for John to get a general idea.

John braced himself, feeling the cool ache of the drug entering his system as Sherlock’s long, artful fingers depressed the syringe.  “John?” Sherlock asked in one of his rare moments of empathy, not missing the tightening of the doctor’s expression.  He still had one hand wrapped around John’s forearm, probably more out of absentmindedness than anything else, but it might have been concern.

“No, no, it’s nothing,” John hurried to assure him, giving his head a quick shake, “Just not used to being a patient, I suppose, if you could call it that.  Usually I’m the one giving shots, not… “  He cut off suddenly, then necessarily changed topics as the drug hit, “Ohhh, that packs a punch.”  John gave his head another shake, _really_ scrunching his eyes closed now as he felt a wave of dizziness as if his body were momentarily detaching from gravity.   Nausea wrestled in his stomach.

“Technically, you should be losing consciousness right now,” Sherlock observed with clinical detachment, flicking his eyes down to his watch with a flick of his wrist.  “Are you?”

“Bloody h…” John groaned as his world continued to get increasingly unstable.  Already, it had reached the point that blinking and shaking his head had ceased to completely clear his vision, and he was _definitely_ going to make Sherlock pay for this one, maybe by throwing out his collection of thumbs in the freezer.  “No, I’m not,” he managed to tartly answer the question, throwing out his hands for balance and finding the edge of the couch and possibly Sherlock’s leg.  “But I’m bloody…”  ‘ _Dizzy’_ was the word that didn’t quite get out, and John felt his ears start ringing.  The whole world was getting a fuzzy, cotton-wrapped quality, and all he could think was that this was ten times worse than slipping swiftly into sleep.  He thought that he heard Sherlock talking to him – saying something – but John couldn’t decipher the words anymore, and he wanted nothing more than to escape this unbalanced, disoriented feeling.

As he reached out to grab reflexively for Sherlock’s sleeve, a shock went through him: Sherlock had grabbed _him_ , around the wrist to be precise.  John swung his head, brows beetled, to see what in the world the other man was on about, only to have Sherlock lunge at him.  John might have parried or just reacted – either way, the next thing John knew, both he and Sherlock were slamming into the floor.

“Sher- Sherlock?” John panted, his voice sounding alien in his own ears.  No words made sense.   _Nothing_ made sense.

Starting with the fact that Sherlock was pinning him to the floor, immobilizing him and holding him down with pure size and weight.  The detective’s voice was a low drone, complicated and incomprehensible and devoid of any particular emotions that usually accompanied attacking a flatmate.  Panic set in.  John tried to yell, but wasn’t sure what exactly he got out before a hand was over his mouth, and he was picking up the distorted sounds of still more damn mumbles from bloody Sherlock…!

John tried to wriggle free, but Sherlock was immovable, by dint of the fact that he was a lanky conglomeration of limbs on a long torso, and had all the advantages of leverage.  When Sherlock halted the attempted escape, however, instincts finally kicked in, and suddenly John was back in Afghanistan.

It didn’t matter that John could feel his mind slipping into someplace dark – he’d been in combat long enough to fight off opponents in his sleep, and had done so in the dark often enough.  Muscles sometimes forgot their old motions, but never permanently, and instantly John was swinging, feeling the phantom sensation of hot desert sand against his side.  His first flail missed, but it got his torso turned around, so that he felt the floor flat beneath his back and above him was a fuzzy, wavering image of Sherlock – all dark hair around a pale face, black pits for eyes to John’s gaze, which wouldn’t focus.  Quick and fast, John’s other arm snapped out, and he felt the telltale blaze of pain across his knuckles that came from hitting flesh and bone.  There was a cacophony around him, his own blood a thundering tide in his ears, but he was still being pinned down – the enemy on top of him was trying to trap his right wrist- _No_.  Denial thundered through him, clear where nothing else was.  The left worked as well as the right in a fix, especially with the world spinning and danger so near; he clenched the fingers of his other hand.

John wondered why he didn’t have a weapon, then simply accepted that he _didn’t_ , and that he’d have to fight for survival without one.   Observe, evaluate, accept – move on.  Fight.  He lashed out with his left fist, this time aiming for the center of mass, because even if he could barely keep his eyes open, he had a good chance of hitting something.  The next sound he heard sounded an awful lot like a curse, and part of him felt… amused… by that.  Sherlock didn’t usually curse, at least not in a yelp like that…

John couldn’t stop until the threat was gone, however, and he could barely get his brain together enough anymore to even remember what was going on.  All he knew was that he was John Watson, and he was in battle, and he _wasn’t_ going to die.

He followed through with the punch by bucking his body, an old move that worked best under the rush of adrenalin, because on his own, John was rather small and unassuming.  When cornered, however, desperation combined with training to make him much more dangerous than people would expect.  This time, he managed to roll the heavier weight off himself, switching their positions to give John the advantage.  By now, he was panting and his eyes were half-closed with dazedness, and it was a constant struggle to function – but if he stopped, his confused mind told him he’d die.  So when he felt hands against his chest, gripping his jumper, he punched downwards again, only finding a target because it was trapped between his legs.  One hand found the unprotected planes of a throat and he gripped on reflex, refusing to admit that his hand was weakening.

But then the world finally went black, and with a panicked mewl of defeat, John’s mind fully disconnected and he sagged, unconscious, against the shape beneath him.

~^~

John drifted for a moment, hearing his own breathing and heartbeat, and then he snapped awake, eyes squinting open dazedly as the rest of his senses rushed in.

Before he could get disoriented by the fact that he was looking up at the ceiling, he heard Sherlock’s smooth, low voice listing with easy efficiency, “You are in 221B and in no danger.  The only other person with you is myself, Sherlock Holmes, and you’ve been unconscious for exactly forty-five minutes.”

The quick rundown of the situation was appreciated, and John took a deep breath that cleared some of the fogginess from his brain but not all of it.  “What happened?” he muttered with sincere befuddlement, growing more confused at the harsh rasp of his own voice.

Sherlock leaned into view.  They were apparently both on the couch, John realized with a jolt, Sherlock sitting at one end while John was stretched out across the majority of it.  Thanks to the fact that John was short, they occupied the space adequately… in fact, they probably could have shared even if Sherlock did not have John’s head resting on his lap, right leg providing an adequate pillow.  Perhaps this position had something to do with the rare look of apology on Sherlock’s face, and John abruptly remembered a fuzzy, frantic memory of what had led up to this.

The ex-Army doctor closed his eyes with a groan, rubbing a hand over his face.  “Sherlock, I should kill you for this,” he informed his flatmate shakily.

Still looking down at him, the corners of his mouth turned downwards in an expressive look of uncomfortable embarrassment – and maybe even remorse – Sherlock reached over unexpectedly and hooked John’s raised arm by the wrist.  It was a decidedly careful grip: he merely circled John’s wrist with one long finger and thumb instead of grabbing it as he had earlier.  The grip would be easily broken if needed.  John’s brows pulled together in query, but before he could ask what Sherlock was on about, he looked from the other man’s face to his own hand in front of his nose.  John’s knuckles were raw.

Only then did he realize that Sherlock was also sporting an admirable bruise on his left cheekbone, just below his eye-socket.  Apparently John had had better aim than he’d expected.  Sherlock also had bruises starting up around his throat in rosy blooms.  “Sorry,” John found himself blurting impulsively, lifting his other hand of his own volition and finding the knuckles similarly reddened.

“I think the apology is mine, John.  I believed it necessary to catch you by surprise to best replicate the circumstance of Larson’s murder,” Sherlock gave in, his voice atypically subdued.  He looked away, chastened and clearly uncomfortable. “However, I may have failed to take into account your previous combat training and military experiences.”

John snorted uncharitably, a humorless smirk pulling his lips back from his teeth – a snarl, not a smile.  “Yes, you might have at that.”

“I _am_ sorry, John.”  Truly, Sherlock looked apologetic – worried even – and when John looked up at him again, the impulsive detective went on awkwardly, “I was remiss in my calculations, and did not anticipate how you would obviously react in a combat situation.  It was… unnerving.”  He glanced away at the last word, lips pursed, and John felt the other man's body shift.

One of these days, the hole John had in his stupid bleeding heart would close up and refuse to let pity for Sherlock in – but not today.  He tried to put on a more real smile for the other man.  Truthfully, John was unsettled by himself, and how easily he’d nearly killed his flatmate.  Sherlock was an idiot, and annoying, and honestly maddening, but that didn’t give John leave to attack him with an intent to kill – and John had had a lot of intent.  If he’d been a bit more coherent…  John imagined Sherlock’s throat under his fingers again and swallowed, paling, horrified.  He somehow managed to choke out almost jokingly, “I bet it was unnerving.  You couldn’t have expected me to go _that_ wild, could you?”  

“No.”  Sherlock said the word forcefully, and it was with falcon-sharp eyes and quite a determined expression that he looked back down at John.  The consulting detective’s hand, unexpectedly, slid up to flatten itself on John’s chest as if to press his words home right through cloth, flesh, and bone.  Also, the possessiveness of the gesture surprised John, who was unused to seeing Sherlock so eager for physical contact.  “Your reactions were understandable, and valid,” Sherlock stressed, and John felt a small fraction better, breathed a little easier.  However, while John relaxed, Sherlock tautened, and his long fingers closed into an apparently unconscious fist in John’s shirt.  Sherlock seemed to struggle with his words, but went on more painstakingly, “What is unnerving is that I did not foresee your instinctive response, and… and that _I caused it_.”  John physically startled at the raw pain that entered Sherlock’s voice.  Sherlock could be so cold, but he did feel, and he was feeling now, and apparently feeling quite badly.  Still holding onto John’s shirt as if afraid he’d go away otherwise, Sherlock dropped his eyes and said in a more hushed tone, “It would appear that you occupy… a blind-spot… in my intellect.  You must believe me when I say that I would never purposefully cause you such distress.”

John could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard Sherlock apologize to anyone – and only a fraction of those had sounded sincere rather than begrudging.  This was another kind of apology entirely, and the shaking in Sherlock’s arm and the white-knuckled tightness of his grip gave away more than his halting, pained words did.  John found himself struck dumb for awhile, as Sherlock sat, tensed and hunched, looking away like a guilty mutt expecting a very well-deserved blow of some sort.  John couldn’t bring himself to deliver that blow.  “I believe you, Sherlock,” he said, quietly and sincerely.

Bright eyes flashed back to John’s face, almost comically disbelieving as they searched distrustfully for some lie in John’s expression.  When he apparently found no such signs, the dark-haired man made a befuddled noise in his throat – this, from a man who was befuddled by basically nothing in life.  One point to John, for being a Sherlock-proof enigma.  Somehow, in an insane sort of way that made John want to giggle giddily, that made up for what had just happened.

Without warning, Sherlock switched topics, and John found himself following the direction of Sherlock’s narrowed eyes, “Do you need something for your hands?”  Sherlock’s grip on John’s shirt belatedly released, but only so that long-fingered grip could be transferred back to John’s left wrist.

Feeling his ears turn red (and hoping that his status as an intellectual blind-spot meant that Sherlock wouldn’t notice), John worked to wriggle his hand free while verbally deflecting, “My _hands_?  Sherlock, I should be asking you about your _face_!  And didn’t I hit you a few more times?  I was sure I did, but the memory is fuzzy.”

“Unclear recollection of events is to be expected,” Sherlock shrugged, only letting go of John’s limb when he felt like it.  He seemed glad for the topic change, and regained control of himself immediately, the infuriating git, “And yes, your punches hit home a few more times – you only missed once, I believe, which is impressive considering you should have been completely unconscious – nearly all body-shots, nothing serious.”

“By the state of my hands,” John snorted, disbelieving, “I wonder how that can be true.  I’m trained to hit pretty hard.”

Sherlock shifted back.  At this awkward angle, John was able to tilt his head and keep most of the other man in his view, and now was able to watch as the dark-haired genius prodded at his own ribs.  The only concession he gave for his condition was a grimacing curl of his lip before dropping his hands again, the nearest actually coming to rest on John’s shoulder.  “Let’s get back on topic, shall we?” he briskly changed topics yet again.  “The case, John, remember?”

“Shouldn’t I get up?” John tried to interject, not wanting to admit that a whine had entered his voice.

But his flatmate was already on a roll, so John just had to relax where he was – clearly, Sherlock wasn’t uncomfortable about their respective positions on the couch, so John tried not to be either.  Besides that, his shirt was still wrinkled by the fierce hold of Sherlock’s hand, and a shadow of that possessive desperation was just noticeable now, too.  Sherlock’s right arm was across John’s chest a bit, seemingly because that made a comfortable arm-rest, but Sherlock’s hand was curled over the ball of John’s shoulder far too snugly to be haphazard.  And from moment to moment, Sherlock’s grip tightened and relaxed, the mindless grasping of a child in the dark for something they didn’t recognize that they needed.  Sherlock had scared the hell out of John, jumping him without warning like that, but John had scared Sherlock, too – and not in the way John had thought.  Sherlock was reckless with his life in the extreme, and had brushed aside the fact that his flatmate had basically beaten him (quite a feat when said flatmate was drugged).  The actual danger that had come uninvited into the situation hadn’t much fazed him.

But the fact that he’d hurt John, that he’d pushed John’s mind back into a time and place of visceral fear that he rarely talked about but often nightmared about… that had cut Sherlock to the quick.  John was the ‘blind-spot in his intellect,’ but a blind-spot alone wouldn’t have made Sherlock forego his usual aloofness to set John up on the sofa with his head on Sherlock’s lap, where the consulting detective could monitor him physically long after the excitement was passed.  A ‘blind-spot’ couldn’t have kept Sherlock that way for forty-five minutes while John did nothing but sleep – and nearly another twenty minutes beyond that, as the two remained on the couch discussing the curious case of Andrew Larson.

Sherlock even checked John’s pulse once, and John let him, because he thought that Sherlock had taught _himself_ a lesson today, a lesson that would encourage him to be more careful with his flatmate from now on.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There :3 Everyone learned something, and pseudo-cuddles were had! And I've once again had the opportunity to play with new characters and practice writing fics that are under 5,000 words long. 
> 
> Much thanks to [Springbok](http://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/pseuds/springbok7) for editing this. I was _this close_ to just posting willy-nilly, buuuut then I realized that Spring and I have talked about this, and editing is good... *guilty face* Fortunately, Springbok's fast!


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